There is No Fight We Cannot Win
by Charlotte88
Summary: Multi-chap. "As a highly skilled and experienced pathologist, Harry Cunningham has seen a lot of bodies. But sometimes, nothing can prepare him for what he's going to see next."
1. One

**_One_**

_The night is deliciously still. Peaceful. The rain stopped an hour ago and there's an orange glimmer in the sheen of water that remains on the street._

_The shadows are long and dark, easily large enough to swallow a grown man into the night._

_You're nearly there now. A bead of cool sweat trickles down your temple. You pat down the pockets of your overcoat to make sure you have everything you need and discover that your hands are shaking._

_They ball into fists of their own volition. _

_The adrenaline is coursing through your veins. _

_Your feet carry you along, a route so familiar now that you could trace it with your eyes closed._

_Months of planning. Of love and devotion to this project._

_And finally, it's happening._

_Tonight. _

_Tonight is the night._

_You stop. Balanced on the edge of the pavement, rocking slightly on the balls of your feet._

_You're there. You're actually there. The exact same spot._

_Excitement threatens to overwhelm you._

_You fill your lungs with air and take three steps backwards._

_You disappear into the shadows. _

_And you wait._

_You're not sure how much time passes._

_But then you see her. Alone. Lost, wandering. _

_Number one._

* * *

Across the city, a long way from strangers in dark shadows, two telephones ring in two apartments roughly two minutes apart. Doctors Nikki Alexander and Harry Cunningham are not happy to be woken at such an unearthly hour on a Monday morning. When told that the other would also be attending, a bubbling sense of dread settles in their stomachs. For two pathologists to be called out, it's got to be a bad one.

The first thing that Harry does is text her, telling her that he'll pick her up in fifteen minutes. He figures that it's more environmentally friendly to car share.

The first thing that Nikki does is read this text and smile. Then she swings her legs out of bed and pads across to her en-suite bathroom, cursing the cold tiled floor.

Harry, meanwhile, does not find it so easy to leave the warmth of his duvet. He starts cursing the world.

Five minutes later and they're both dressed and both in their separate kitchens with their separate kettles brewing separate Thermos mugs of coffee. Strong coffee.

Despite registering that it's only just three am, Nikki pretends that it isn't and starts eating Special K straight out of the box, leaning back against her kitchen counter and fighting her eyes' determination to close again.

Considerably less calm, Harry searches desperately for his car keys. Which is ridiculous, because he was only in his car a few hours ago. One of these days he'll take Nikki's advice and dedicate a special place in his flat for them. Maybe.

"You said fifteen minutes," Nikki greets him as she collapses into the seat of his car outside her apartment block. "It's been twenty."

"Yes, well ... You're just lucky I'm here at all," is his surly retort. He doesn't do mornings very well.

"Lose your keys again?"

"No."

* * *

If there's one thing that Detective Inspector Neil Kitson of the Metropolitan Police hates, it's lukewarm coffee in polystyrene cups. There's nothing like a proper coffee, and the one he's just been handed is _nothing _like a proper coffee. He looks around for a bin, but of course there's never one around when you want one (and this godforsaken back street could really do with one), and so he hands it to an unsuspecting uniformed officer scurrying past without so much as a word.

Detective Inspector Neil Kitson of the Metropolitan Police doesn't have time to learn names and make conversation.

He's running a stressed hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, which could really do with a trim, when he feels the heavy raindrop fall against the back of his fingers.

"Bloody hell. Someone get a tent over her, quickly!" he barks at the surrounding SOCOs, who have only just arrived (it's all right, clearly they know he's got all day), gesturing at the dead body a few metres in front of him. "Hurry up! Before we lose what little evidence we have!"

He sighs exasperatedly when a young police constable trips and stumbles over a forensic kit. The whole lot of them are incompetent. Neil tips his head back and raises his eyes to the open heavens for a moment, inhaling deeply. Bloody forecast. 'The rain should hold off until lunchtime', they'd said.

His gaze travels the perimeter of the crime scene now, eyes narrowing against the increasingly persistent downpour. He looks up and down the long, narrow street, before making an impatient noise in the back of his throat. "Where the _hell_ are the goddam pathologists?" he shouts, to anyone who will listen.

* * *

Professor Leo Dalton, meanwhile, sleeps soundly in his bed, and enjoys the perks of being the boss.

* * *

The reason the pathologists are late – as Nikki will point out to anyone in the vicinity – is because Harry got lost.

"I wasn't _lost_," he argues as they suit up at the boot of his car. "I knew _exactly_ where we were. I just wasn't sure how to get from there to here. I'm sorry if I haven't learnt the _A to Z of London's East End_ off by heart. Anyway, I don't remember you offering any directions."

"I did!"

"Oh yes, of course. Do forgive me," he says, overly dramatically. "Thank you so much for directing me the wrong way up a one way street. Reversing all the way back down wasn't embarrassing at all."

Two SOCOs nearby exchange glances and a smirk. This is not their first crime scene with Doctors Cunningham and Alexander.

Nikki merely giggles quietly, passing Harry his silver forensic case and picking up her own. His brows furrow as they walk towards the crime scene. "Have we been here before?"

She glances around as they duck under the police cordon tape. "I don't think so. Why?"

"Just ... looks familiar."

"About bloody time!" comes the gruff call of a broad-shouldered man in a rain-speckled but otherwise smart cashmere coat. It's difficult to tell in the darkness whether it's navy or black. Perhaps not the most important thing to focus on, Nikki realises, but she likes to judge character by the clothes on a person's body. Whatever colour the coat, clearly, this detective had not been prepared for rain.

She pushes her own damp hair out of her face as she and Harry reach him. "Doctor Nikki Alexander," she smiles, holding out a hand. "This is Doctor Harry Cunningham."

He brushes away her hand with a wave of his own. "Yeah, yeah, I'm DI Neil Kitson, whatever. Let's make this snappy, shall we, before we all end up looking like drowned rats?"

Nikki glances around at her surroundings as they walk, suspecting that there probably were actual drowned rats around here somewhere. A grotty street in the heart of Whitechapel, with small apartment buildings, construction yards and a large sports centre backing onto it, it wasn't exactly the ideal location to be at 4am on a Monday morning. There was a rumble as one of the first tubes of the day trundled through Whitechapel underground station below their feet.

She catches Harry's eye and he pulls a face. Clearly they'd been thinking along the same wavelength (it has been known to happen occasionally).

And then she sees the body.

Her initial thoughts had been right.

It was a bad one.

* * *

Harry has seen plenty of dead bodies over the years. Freak accidents, desperate suicides, vicious murders, old age, terrible illness; you name it, he's seen it. But this is ... something else.

He shares a look with Nikki, whose face has visibly paled, even under the harsh spotlights set up by forensics and the orange glare of the streetlamps overhead. Then he glances at Kitson, who is regarding the body with a slightly nauseous expression on his stern face.

She – for it's definitely a she – is slumped at the bottom of a wall on the pavement. She's only young; he would guess early-twenties at a push. She's wearing a shorter-than-short skirt and tank top, both of which are saturated with dark blood. Her head has fallen onto her chest and long, brown hair hangs in rain-and-blood-matted strands over her face.

Clearly visible on her neck and stomach are deep, gaping stab wounds. No, not stabs. More like ... slices. Leaving her body ... open. It's grotesque. Some killers show respect to their victims, adoration, even. But the guy who did this? It doesn't bear thinking about.

Harry can just about see inside her, can see a bloody mess of internal organs.

He takes another glance at their location. He's sure he's been here before. It's like ... déjà vu.

He bends down level with the victim, tilting her head back so that he can look at her properly. Bright green eyes stare back at him, dull and lifeless as they stare over his shoulder. He finds that he has to look away for a moment and take a breath.

Yes, as a highly skilled and experienced pathologist Harry Cunningham has seen a lot of bodies. But sometimes, nothing can prepare him for what he's going to see next.

* * *

It _always _rains when she gets called out to a crime scene, Nikki concludes as she snaps open her case and extracts a swab. Whenever she's on call, the heavens decide to open. It's like some higher power has it in for her; not only does she get woken at such unsociable hours and dragged halfway across London to some grotty crime scene, but she gets completely drenched while she's there. It always bloody happens.

With a sigh, she attempts to focus on what she's doing, lifting the victim's arm into the air. "Rigor hasn't set in yet, she's not been dead any longer than about two hours. Who found her?" she asks the detective standing opposite them, although she's not entirely sure whether he's going to bother answering her. He doesn't seem to like conversation.

He surprises her, however, with a softer tone than before. "Her boyfriend, Daniel Turner. Her name is Kelly Jessop, she's twenty-one. They were at a party nearby, had an argument and she stormed out. Half an hour later he went looking for her. And found her like this, poor bastard."

Beside her, Harry nods knowingly. "That's his vomit on the other side of the road, I take it?"

Kitson purses his lips for a moment, before saying through gritted teeth, "No, that was one of my completely _inept_ officers."

Nikki, though, has stopped listening. "He found her thirty minutes later?"

"Thereabouts, yeah."

"Well, that didn't give the murderer very long at all, did it? Not to do this amount of damage..." she muses.

Harry grimaces. "You think he's done this before? Practiced?"

She shrugs and they fall silent. The rain patters on the canvas over their heads. Leaning closer, Nikki frowns as she notices something odd. "She's smudged her lipstick. Look, there's a streak of it from her bottom lip all the way down to her chin."

"She was at a party," Kitson reminds her. "I've seen what kids her age get up to these days. I'd be more surprised if her lipstick _wasn't _smudged."

Shaking her head, Nikki says, "She's not been kissing. Harry, give me your hand."

Looking puzzled, he holds out gloved fingers. Taking them in her own, she selects his thumb and hovers it over the lipstick smudge. It's nearly a perfect fit.

"So he put her hand over her mouth to stop her screaming, so what?" Kitson snaps impatiently.

"If he did that then it would be smudged all over her lips and chin, not just that one spot. I think he opened her mouth." She nods at Harry, who carefully prises the jaws open while she selects her tweezers from her case.

"What on earth for?" Kitson asks, bewildered.

But she's already found what for, and is extracting it gently. It's a small, folded piece of paper. She takes it in her fingers, as Harry and the detective peer closely over her shoulders. It unfurls to be about the size of a business card, with a swirling pattern and the words 'with sympathy' printed in one corner. The sort one might find in a bunch of flowers. But written on it in black permanent marker are three large letters.

_JtR._

"'JtR'? What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Kitson barks, more curiously than angrily.

"Oh my god." Beside her, Harry has stumbled to his feet and taken two steps backwards, running a hand over his face. "Oh my god," he says again.

Straightening up herself, still holding the card, Nikki gazes at him questioningly. "What? Harry, what is it?"

"I thought this was familiar," he mutters. "We're in _Whitechapel._ How can you not see it?"

But she's nonplussed. Kitson, however, has nearly the exact same reaction that Harry did a minute previously. "You're bloody kidding me!" He and Harry share a look.

"What is it?" she asks again, more persistently, annoyed at being excluded from their epiphany.

"'JtR'!" Harry exclaims. "_Jack the Ripper_!"

* * *

**Thought I would write a new multi-chapter, seeing as I haven't for so long. I realised as I was writing this just how much I missed it. **

**I'll try my best to update it as frequently as possible (I do actually have the next couple of chapters essentially finished) but you know what I'm like. **

**Let me know what you think?**

**Charlotte x**


	2. Two

**_Two_**

It's still dark, when they arrive at the Lyell Centre nearly two hours later. Still just short of six am on what's turning into another miserable March day. Harry is no longer feeling tired. His exhaustion disappeared back at the crime scene, only to be replaced by a kind of burning curiosity that he hasn't really felt in a while.

Nikki is being as sceptical as ever. He can almost see the cogs in her brain whirring as she desperately tries to think of something more rational that 'JtR' could stand for.

"You realise that Jack the Ripper has been dead for over one hundred years?" she says as they walk into the quiet cutting room. Kitson is waiting for them by the body, having informed them that he couldn't see "bugger all" from behind the glass of the observation deck.

"It had occurred to me, yes," he retorts dryly. "I was actually leaning towards the copycat killer angle, rather than the immortal man theory."

She scowls and he can't help but grin.

* * *

Neil Kitson can't see that there's anything to be grinning about. As soon as he'd laid eyes Kelly Jessop's body at the crime scene he had known that this was going to be one of those cases. One of those exasperating, soul-destroying cases where he forgets how to exist outside of work for days at a time.

Absent-mindedly, he twists the wedding ring on his finger. Helen's going to kill him. There's no way he's going to be making their anniversary dinner on Friday. Not unless the bastard who did this wants to step forward and confess.

He hates it when they don't have anything to go on. _Hates_ it. They waste time running around like headless chickens, desperately searching for anything that might be a lead, or a clue. Meanwhile the killer has plenty of time to cover his tracks.

Neil's mind wanders to the note. _JtR_. What if the pathologist (what was his name? Cun... Cunningham?) was right? What if they do have a Jack the Ripper copycat on their hands?

He supposes that there is somewhat of an advantage to this. They know where he's likely to kill next. They know the victimology. Except (and he could be wrong, the only time he's studied Jack the Ripper was when watching _From Hell_ with Johnny Depp) there are some things that don't add up. He does know that the Ripper exclusively killed prostitutes, and Kelly Jessop certainly wasn't a hooker.

Poor kid.

* * *

"Are you gonna do this, or what?" Kitson snaps from his position at the head of the slab, his eyes trained on the face of the dead woman in front of him.

Nikki raises her eyebrows slightly. The detective's abrasive personality was beginning to grate on her nerves. His scowl wipes the grin off of Harry's face, and she finds this irritating. They're allowed to laugh! If they weren't then there's no way she could still do this job.

Just because she and Harry like to crack a joke occasionally, that doesn't mean they don't understand the tragedy of the lost life in front of them. It doesn't mean that they don't take their job one-hundred percent seriously (well ... maybe ninety-five percent).

"Sorry to keep you waiting, _detective_." She comes across a little harsher than she intended, but it's too late to take it back now and anyway, she doesn't really want to.

The post-mortem takes a little over an hour, although cause of death was obvious before they started. Massive blood loss from the severe wounds on Kelly Jessop's torso.

"These wounds are surprisingly precise," she comments, her nose mere inches from them. "They're very clean cuts. Incredibly deep and wide. About..." she accepts a ruler from a lab tech, "three inches from the left side of the abdomen. There are several smaller incisions, too, across the abdomen."

Harry points to the cut across Kelly's neck. "It was this one that did it. Severed the carotid artery. She would have bled out within a couple of minutes. I mean, look at it: her head's only just still attached to her neck."

Kitson swallows hard before speaking. "The ones on her stomach, were they made before or after death?"

She pulls a face.'"It's difficult to say for certain, although there is some coagulation which would suggest that the wounds were made antemortem."

"If I had to guess," Harry adds, "I would say that he did that to her abdomen and then cut her neck to finish her off."

"What did he use?" the detective asks, his voice even gruffer than it was before. "A knife?"

"A scalpel," Nikki replies instantly. "These wounds are too ... neat. You'd expect to see more of a pattern if it had been a knife, even if the blade wasn't serrated. No, this has taken ... skill. Planning. Practice. He knew what he was doing."

Picking up her own scalpel, Nikki nods at Harry to make sure that he's ready and then performs the Y-shaped incision on Kelly's body.

A wave of nausea sweeps across her as they reveal her insides, or what's left of them.

"Jesus Christ..." Kitson mutters, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. "Has she been-?"

"Disembowelled," Harry finishes. "Yes."

* * *

Kitson asks where he can find a coffee once they're finished. Harry secretly suspects that he's fed up of their company (the feeling is rather mutual) and so directs him back to the office while he and Nikki go to change.

"I don't like him," Nikki murmurs once they're safely out of earshot.

"Kitson?"

"He comes across a little ... uncaring. Don't you think?"

He does think for a moment, as Nikki disappears behind some lockers to change. He swaps his scrub bottoms for jeans, remembering the way Kitson had been looking at Kelly's body and how he'd demanded to be in front of the glass with them, rather than behind it.

She emerges a minute later, fully dressed and styling her hair into a loose bun on the back of her head.

"I don't know," he says when she looks at him for an answer. "I think he does care. I think he cares an awful lot. I just don't think he's very good at showing it."

She looks doubtful. "Well, he could at least be a little less rude. He bites our heads off every time we open our mouths."

He nods as he pulls his scrub top off and puts a shirt on over his t-shirt. "Well I agree with you there. But that's just how he is, I guess."

A smirk graces her lips as she dodges past him. "The same way you like to think you're witty and sarcastic."

He closes his locker sharply and frowns at her retreating back. "Wait, what do you mean I like to _think_ I'm witty and sarcastic? I'll have you know that I _am_ witty and sarcastic." She's already left the room. Narrowing his eyes, he shouts after her, "Hysterically so!"

* * *

Leo is a little late getting to the Lyell Centre this morning. He burnt his toast. Which may not sound like a big deal, but it set his smoke alarm off and while he was stood on a stool hitting the sodding thing with a spatula, his scrambled egg went cold and watery.

Since Janet left a few months ago he hasn't yet been able to sit down and eat a breakfast that wasn't burnt, cold and/or congealed. And it's not that he can't look after himself (he's cooked plenty of successful meals alone over the years) just that ... it's not the same anymore.

(You'll notice he likes to say "since Janet left". Saying out loud that he and he alone had broken their relationship and her heart only increases his anger at himself.)

So he was forced to stop at Starbucks on the way in and pick up a freshly-toasted bacon butty and a large cup of strong coffee.

Which is fine. Who needs breakfast, anyway?

There's a man wandering around the office when Leo buzzes himself through the doors. He's tall, broad-shouldered and looks harassed, whilst simultaneously drinking coffee from Leo's favourite mug.

Definitely a detective.

"Can I help you with anything?" Leo asks politely.

The man's voice is rougher than Leo imagined when he replies. "How good are you at catching a murderer?"

"Isn't that what you're supposed do?"

The two men briefly smile at each other, before shaking hands.

"Professor Leo Dalton."

"Ah, the boss, I presume. I'm DI Neil Kitson."

Leo glances at his watch. It's only just seven-thirty, yet Kitson looks like he's been up half the night. "An early start, was it?"

Kitson snorts humourlessly. "I'll say. Looks like we might have a Jack the Ripper copycat on our hands."

Leo's eyes widen, but before he can say anything Harry and Nikki appear round the corner. They both smile when they spot him.

"We're ready," Nikki says, jerking her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the layout room.

"Mind if I tag along?" Leo asks, his breakfast long forgotten. He has nothing else to do, and if he's sat in his office bored then his mind will wander to places he really doesn't want to let it.

"Of course not."

"Oh, wait," Kitson says suddenly as they all make to leave the room. "I made you both a coffee. Thought you might need it after ... after that."

He places his own mug down briefly and hands one each to Harry and Nikki. Judging by the hilariously shocked looks on their faces, Leo can only guess that Kitson isn't really the coffee-giving type.

* * *

Harry clicks a button on the laptop so that a grainy black and white photograph of a dead woman in a standard-issue mortuary coffin appears magnified on the wall behind him.

"Mary Ann Nichols," he announces to the room. "First victim of legendary serial killer, Jack the Ripper."

"Harry..." Nikki begins, but he ignores her.

"On August 31st 1888, her body was discovered in Bucks Row, Whitechapel, a little before four am. _In the exact same spot _as our victim this morning. The buildings have changed, the even the name of the road has changed, but it was pretty much as close as you can physically get to the Ripper's murder spot. Nichols had the _exact same wounds_ as Kelly Jessop; her throat was slit and she was disembowelled. Now, I'm sorry, Nikki, but you can't still be trying to say that this isn't a copycat."

Kitson runs a hand over his unshaven chin. "It's certainly compelling."

"Yes, it is," Nikki nods. "But there are certain things that don't add up. I agree that our killer potentially used the MO of the Ripper, but if it was a copycat wouldn't we expect it to be more ... factually precise?"

"What do you mean?" Leo frowns.

She slips off her stool and joins Harry at the front of the room. "Mary Ann Nichols was murdered on 31st August, yes? Well, you'd expect a copycat to copy the dates. Also, the note. 'JtR'. Jack didn't leave notes in the victims' mouths, so why is our guy? Can I see that?" She twists the laptop towards her, bringing up the Jack the Ripper website that Harry was on with the details of Nichols' death. "Look, another thing: Nichols was found lying down on the pavement. As we saw, Kelly was sitting up against the wall. Also, all of Jack's victims were prostitutes. Kelly wasn't. How hard would it have been for our killer to hire a hooker and then kill her? But instead he kills Kelly, just because she's walking by. It was pure opportunity."

"I did think that myself," Kitson nods.

"I agree with you, Harry, in that the resemblance is uncanny," she continues. "But there are just too many little details that are missing. And to a copycat killer, little details are everything."

Harry sighs audibly. "If he's not a copycat, then what the hell is he doing?"

None of them can provide an answer.

* * *

Just as Leo's starting to think about going home, his phone rings. He swears under his breath; he's had a nice quiet day, has managed to catch up on a lot of paperwork, and was hoping to get home early.

Jotting down the crime scene details, he crosses to the doorway of his office and observes his colleagues for a moment. They've been working so hard all day; Kitson left shortly before lunch and he's barely seen Harry and Nikki since. And now they're packing up to go home (he heard the word 'takeaway'). It wouldn't be fair to palm off this crime scene on them, not when they're so involved in another case. So instead he bids them goodnight, gathers his things, and heads there himself.

Half an hour later and he arrives on a tree-lined street in Acton. He parks behind a police car and looks up at the tall Georgian house, illuminated by the rotating blue lights of the plethora of emergency vehicles surrounding it.

He's greeted on the tidy garden path by a female detective, who informs him that the victim is nineteen year old Hannah Everson, a Philosophy student at UCL. Her flatmate found her body when she came home from studying.

They cross the threshold into the house and a peculiar chill sweeps over Leo. He's not sure whether it's the eerie silence or the pained faces of the SOCOs coming down the stairs, but something is telling him that this is going to be a bad one.

He follows DC Aldrin upstairs until they reach what is presumably Hannah's bedroom. Taking a deep breath, he sidesteps a young policeman and enters the room.

It's immediately obvious that there's been a struggle. The window is wide open and the half-closed curtains are billowing in the wind. A small bookcase has been knocked over and there's a laptop and number of papers strewn across the floor. An old teddy bear lies, squashed and grubby, near the bed.

Hannah is lying on top of the covers, her eyes wide and full of frozen fear and pain. She's completely naked and blood is beginning to pool on the sheets beneath her. There are bright scarlet abrasions on her neck, stomach and thighs. A scarlet handprint is clearly visible over her mouth.

"Raped?" Aldrin asks, startling Leo. For a moment then he'd forgotten that there were other people in the room.

"I won't know for definite until we get her back to the Lyell, but it looks like it."

He steps closer to the bed. And that's when he notices it. A fleck of white between her lips. Frowning, he bends closer. It's the corner of a piece of paper protruding from her mouth. A sense of impending dread settles heavily in his stomach.

"Call DI Kitson, now," he says, his voice surprisingly steady. He doesn't need to check what it is first; he already knows. With the assistance of a SOCO, he forces open Hannah's mouth (it's difficult, rigor is beginning to set in) and pulls out the small 'with sympathy card' that he saw just this morning. Unfolding it with a pair of tweezers and his gloved fingers, he reads aloud the two large black letters, written in permanent marker.

"_'TB'_..._"_

There's no mistaking this signature, but the murder of Hannah Everson couldn't be more different from that of Kelly Jessop. What kind of sick, twisted game have they found themselves caught up in? Swallowing hard, Leo plucks out his mobile phone and dials Harry's number.

"Harry, you need to get back to the Lyell. Bring Nikki, too."

"Why, what's going on? I thought you were at a crime scene?"

"I am. We've got another one."

There's a shocked silence and Leo can hear Nikki's curious enquiries in the background. Eventually Harry says, "Another Ripper victim?"

"The same killer, almost definitely. But it's not a copycat of Jack the Ripper. We've been given some different initials, this time. Does 'TB' mean anything to you?"

* * *

**A hundred points to anyone who can guess what 'TB' stands for (and it's not tuberculosis).**

**Thank you so much for all the reviews! I did not expect so many at all, I'm truly grateful. Not sure what I'm doing right exactly, but I'll keep trying! **

**Chapter three coming soon.**

**xo**


	3. Three

**_Three_**

"I swear we're going to spend the rest of our days in this place," Nikki sighs as she and Harry walk across the dark car park and back into the lab, just an hour after they had left. "We'll be the oldest working pathologists there ever were. You'll have to push me up to the dead guy in my wheelchair and pass me my ancient scalpel so I can perform outdated techniques. Then we'll end up on the slabs ourselves, shrivelled and alone, and do you know how our gravestones will read, Harry? They'll say 'here lies Harry and Nikki, the two most idiotically, pathetically devoted pathologists ever to exist and as such they never had a social life which is why no one visits these gravestones. Ever'."

An amused expression graces Harry's features as he looks sideways at her scowling face. "That's how they're going to read, is it?"

"Yes. Or, if they want a short version: 'died alone'."

Although he knows she's joking, he can also hear the slightly bitter edge to her words. And he understands. They love their job, and he knows that he could certainly never be without it, but sometimes it can be a little ... difficult.

"Ah, but according to you we're going to die in each other's arms on that rusted, ancient mortuary slab," he points out.

A grudging smile catches on her lips. "I said 'slab_s_', _plural_. I'm not that easy to get into bed, death or otherwise."

"Oh, trust me, I know."

They hold each other's gaze for a moment, before she properly smiles this time and looks away. They don't speak again until they walk into the office, when Nikki mutters, "You said Leo sounded worried on the phone. That's a bad sign, isn't it?"

"Yes," he says quietly. "Yes, that's a bad sign."

* * *

"'TB'. It's 'Ted Bundy', isn't it?" Neil sighs, his fingertips pulling a large photograph of Hannah Everson's body towards him. "It bears all the trademarks of him."

It's late, so late that he doesn't even know what the time is anymore. He's not sure he wants to know.

With a groan, he leans back in his chair. After he'd gritted his teeth through his second post-mortem of the day, they'd gone over everything in the layout room. Much as they had this morning. But then their legs had started to ache and their eyes had started to sting, and so now they were sitting around the large table in the office. There were remnants of a Chinese takeaway littering the surface, and the smell emanating from the empty silver trays combined with the images he was looking at were making him feel slightly ill.

He just wants this to be over already.

"But..." Nikki is frowning. "Ted Bundy was American, wasn't he?"

"Yep," nods Leo. "He was executed by electric chair at Florida State Prison in January 1989, shortly after he confessed to killing at least thirty women across several different states between 1974 and 1978."

"He chose victims who looked like his ex-girlfriend," Neil interjected. "He was handsome and charming and would lull the women into a false sense of security. But he was brutal. He would viciously rape them, before and after they were dead. He decapitated twelve of them, too."

There's silence for a moment as the four of them absorb this, then Harry says, "We don't stand a chance, do we?"

Neil knows what he's getting at, but Nikki glances across at him and says, "What do you mean?"

"If our killer is intending to carry out all these murders, each of which is some sort of twisted homage to a different infamous serial killer, then how on earth can we expect to find out who it is? There's no predictability there at all. First he picks an English serial killer from the nineteenth century, then an American one from forty years ago. He's careful to copy the murders closely, but he's not perfectly precise. He doesn't leave a trace of forensic evidence at the crime scenes, the locations of which could also be anywhere, as proved by Acton this afternoon. And he's killed twice in _twenty-four hours_. That's incredibly fast. If he keeps that up then we're going to be getting another phone call in just a few hours time. It's just..." Harry trails off, shaking his head.

"Impossible," Neil finishes. "Unless he slips up and makes a mistake, I can't see how we're going to get that crucial step ahead of him."

Silence falls again, and he knows that they're all thinking the same thing: they're in over their heads.

Unable to bear the inactivity any longer, he pushes his chair back and gets to his feet. "I'm going back to the station," he informs them, shrugging on his jacket. "I suggest you all go home and get some sleep. I have a feeling we might be busy tomorrow."

"Shouldn't you be going home too?"

"I couldn't sleep if I tried. Might as well try and be productive rather than tossing and turning. Anyway, I need to prepare to brief my team first thing," he explains. "Is it all right if I take some of these photos? You've got copies, right?"

Leo nods wearily, and Neil tightly smiles a thanks. He looks at the three pathologists for a moment. They're clearly exhausted, but they've worked damn hard today and he truly appreciates it. "Look," he begins, then realises that he's not sure what exactly to say. So he settles with (and he summons every ounce of sincerity he can muster), "Thank you. When this is all over the drinks are on me."

Harry laughs. "I'll hold you to that."

Another quick smile and Neil leaves them to it. He heads back to the nearly deserted police station, slams his office door a little too loudly, sits down behind his desk a little too heavily, opens his bottom drawer, pulls out that bottle of whisky that he's been saving for a special occasion, and drinks.

* * *

Leo doesn't consider himself a gambling man. In fact, he pretty much despises most sports. (This may or may not stem from a lingering bitterness over being picked for the team last in every P.E. lesson at school). But one thing he has recognised is that Harry and Kitson were right; the odds really are stacked against them. He can't imagine anyone would bet on them winning this thing, coming out the other side triumphant.

Sure, they'll probably catch this bastard in the end – he is only human, after all, and everyone makes a mistake eventually.

But how many more victims are they going to be finding before that day comes? How many more innocent lives are going to be lost? They don't know who or where this guy is; he could be out right now stalking his prey. At any moment Leo's phone could ring and he could be summoned to another crime scene. Any second now.

That thought sends a shiver through Leo. He watches as Harry and Nikki leave together and bites his lip uncertainly. This case is going to hit all three of them hard, he just knows it. Very hard indeed.

* * *

But they don't hear anything the next day. Besides a gang-related hit-and-run in Brixton which Harry grudgingly attends, the phones remain silent and the cutting room deserted.

It's unnerving. It puts them all on edge.

Harry spends most of the day soaking wet as he goes in and out of the office, grumbling about needing an umbrella. He's trying to distract himself by diving into this hit-and-run, when they all know that nothing can be proven and the gang ringleader will most likely get away with it. By evening, he's forced to finally collapse at his desk and succumb to the realisation that distractions are fleeting and ineffective.

Leo reads a lot. He digs out books that haven't been touched for twenty years and opens numerous internet windows, each page containing details on a different serial killer. It's only when Nikki forces a sandwich upon him that he remembers to eat. Not until the dark grey sky turns inky black does he finally lean back in his chair and just ... take a breath.

Neil stays holed up in his office all morning. He feels a little hungover, though he never actually slept. He changes his shirt before anyone else arrives and runs a comb through his hair. It doesn't make much difference. He spends the afternoon pacing the bullpen, making his subordinates nervous and jumpy. He knows, but he doesn't care. If it motivates them to work, to try and find something, _anything_, that he's missed, then it will be worth it.

Nikki doesn't say much all day. It's not that she doesn't have anything to say, because in fact her mind has been running in overdrive, just that it's nothing that wasn't already said yesterday and she knows that Harry, Leo and Kitson are busy handling the pressure in their own ways. She's just a burden at this point; until she can find out something useful, something pertinent, what use would it be in troubling anyone?

That's just the thing though; no matter how much thinking, reading or researching is undertaken, they've hit a dead end. Neil doesn't find anything in the victimology of Kelly Jessop or Hannah Everton to suggest that their paths have ever crossed. There's no common thread. They were running full pelt at this, and before they know it they have crashed into a solid brick wall. And they're _so_ tired.

It's upon this realisation that Neil decides they need a fresh pair of eyes, someone who might be able to use their expertise and find them a breakthrough, no matter how small. They need a profiler, someone to provide the psychological angle of this investigation. He flips through the list of telephone numbers on his desk until he locates the one he's looking for.

She answers after the second ring.

"Janet Mander."

"Hi, Janet. It's Neil, Neil Kitson. I think I might need your help..."

* * *

Janet nearly says no. When she finds out that Neil is working with the Lyell Centre ... she nearly says no. But what sort of person would that make her then? She pledged to help save lives with her job – maybe not directly, but if she can help the detectives to find the monsters and stop them killing, then that's saving lives, right?

Sure, one of her colleagues could probably have stepped in – but she knows that she's the best. She's not bragging or being big-headed, it's just a fact.

But it's bound to be awkward, working with Leo again. It's been three months since he ended things, but sometimes it stings as if it were yesterday. Until now, they'd done a pretty good job of avoiding each other.

She'd met up for a coffee with Nikki a couple of times, but that was uncomfortable, too. Janet could hardly blame her; it was an impossible position to be put in, caught in the tug-of-war between her boss and her friend. In the end, Janet always knew that Leo would come out on top. He was, after all, her boss.

But it was more than that. The three of them at the Lyell were such a close-knit team, and that was putting it mildly. Three integral cogs of a spectacular machine. They've seen each other through everything; thick and thin, they've always been there. As much as she may resent Leo, she can't deny that he's a wonderful head of their dysfunctional family. And Harry and Nikki are ... well, they're Harry and Nikki – feigning ignorance of just how fiercely dependent they are on one another as if it's a habit they just can't quit. She used to wonder just how the other two would survive if one of them were to leave. They wouldn't, is the answer. They would cease to function properly.

So when it comes to stepping inside the Lyell Centre, Janet finds that she needs to take a minute to collect herself before heading in. Her fingers are trembling and that annoys her, so she shoves her hands into her coat pockets. She's just wondering whether to call Neil and tell him that someone else was going to have to step in, when the detective himself rounded the corner of the car park. He looks surprised to see her.

"I thought you'd already be in there," he comments, coming to a halt beside her.

She releases a long breath, watching as it turns to steam in the cool air. "I just needed a moment."

Neil scrutinises her carefully. "I know you and Dalton have a history or whatever, but you need to forget about that for a while. You are a brilliant professional, and we need you in there-"

"Does Leo know I'm coming?"

"Not yet." He steps directly in front of her so that she's forced to look at him. "Janet, there are two dead young women in there and countless more living their lives _out there_ that need you. Snap out of this, okay? Show him that you don't need him. Now, you good?"

She smiles for the first time that day and nods, following him into the lab. "You know," she says as they sign in at reception. "You're not the complete bastard that you often come across as."

He frowns slightly as they head down the corridor. "Thanks. I think."

Just two minutes later and Harry is buzzing them into the office. He greets Janet just as he always has done; a hug, a kiss on the cheek, a charming comment. She realises that she's missed this.

But then he leads them through the layout room, where she sets eyes on Leo for the first time in three months.

And her heart breaks all over again.

* * *

**I've been planning on reuniting Leo and Janet since I watched _Redhill_. ;)**

**Thank you so so so much to everyone who reviewed! Congrats to all who guessed Ted Bundy. Your collective knowledge on infamous serial killers is really quite startling.**

**I'll try and update again soon.**

**xo**


	4. Four

**_Four_**

Leo feels as if all the air has been sucked from his lungs when Janet enters the room with Kitson. He gapes at her for a moment, before pulling himself together and greeting her with an awkward "hello" as she accepts Nikki's open embrace. She simply nods at him over Nikki's shoulder.

Why didn't anyone tell him that she would be coming? He doesn't need to ask why she's here, of course. She's the best. But maybe if someone had given him a warning that he would soon be seeing her for the first time in months, maybe he could have mentally prepared for her arrival. He could have planned something to say, for he feels that there's so much left unsaid between them.

He tries to focus on the conversation. Harry's giving Janet a brief run-down of the case. She's listening to him with that air of utmost concentration that forces her features into a delicate frown. He can almost see the cogs whirring in her brilliant brain.

And, _oh god_, he's missed her.

* * *

Nikki almost forgets that Leo and Janet are still broken up. It would be just like old times, if it wasn't for the simmering awkwardness and the fact that neither of them can seem to make eye contact with each other. Part of her wishes they were back together; she always liked Janet, and she was such a good influence on Leo after Cassie and Teresa. They just seemed to _get_ each other, no matter what happened. They were always there for each other. She wants that. She wants what Janet and Leo used to have. Although ... look what they became.

When Harry stops talking and sits down she sighs, trying to pull herself back into the present as Janet turns around in her seat, now facing the people gathered around her.

"What d'you reckon then?" Kitson asks. "Twisted or what?"

Janet smiles wryly. "I think you're looking for a Caucasian male, aged between twenty-five and forty-five. He's a loner, doesn't have any close friends or relatives. If he does have family, then that family is difficult. Has been since he was a child. It's highly likely that he dipped into arson in his youth, or animal cruelty. He was and is an attention seeker.

" He's a hedonist, a thrill-seeker. Killing these women gives him a buzz stronger than any drug can, hence his rapid attack times. He might even find a sexual release from it, although I suspect that if he does then that's merely an added bonus – it's not the primary reason for him doing this."

Nikki frowns. "Then what is his primary motive?"

"His need for control," Janet explains. "He has this desperate need to show that he is capable of doing this, that he can control not only his life but the lives of his victims also. And he does this by playing God. As far as he is concerned, he's choosing when to end these lives and that, in his mind, makes him the most powerful person in the world. That's why he leaves you the notes. It's his way of telling you that _he_ controls this game that he's playing with you. It's why he doesn't stick to a pattern-"

"But he does stick to a pattern," Kitson interrupts abruptly. "This copycat thing he has going on."

Janet pulls a face. "Yes, but that's more his ritual, his MO, than a pattern – and even then, he copies a different murderer each time. No, a pattern would be one body every day, or two victims every week. He's inconsistent with his attacks. You had two bodies within twenty-four hours yesterday, and yet absolutely nothing today. Although he appears to be murdering quickly, he's very much a process-focused killer."

"Maybe he's already killed again, but no one's found the body yet?" Nikki suggests.

Shaking her head, Janet says, "He's always going to leave the body where he knows it will be found, even if that means performing a location recce beforehand. He wants us to notice him. That's not going to happen if no one finds the victims."

Nikki can feel her brain beginning to ache. Her eyes drift to the window. Darkness has already fallen, swallowing the deep grey rainclouds which she suspects are still there, just waiting for her to leave. She sips at her lukewarm tea as Harry asks what she had been thinking. "But why doesn't he just stick to one infamous killer, why choose a different one every time he kills?"

"Many reasons," Janet says calmly, her fingers knotting together on the tabletop. "It could be because it makes it more difficult for the police. You can't focus on victimology, MO, or even times and dates as you would with an 'ordinary' copycat-"

"Some deep-seeded admiration of these killers?" Leo suggests, and he looks so lost in thought that Nikki wonders if he's forgotten that Janet's even there.

What Nikki does pick up on is the slight falter in Janet's voice when she replies. "No, I don't think it's that. If he so desperately loved and adored these other serial killers, then every single detail of the crime scenes, the victims, the times and the dates, would all be perfectly precise. Instead, it's almost as if he _bases_ his own murders on these infamous ones. I think it all comes back to his need to show you all that he's in control; it's like he's declaring that he's_ better _than Jack the Ripper, or Bundy. We can safely assume that he's going to kill again and copy someone else, which in his mind makes him better than all these original killers combined."

"That's great, but how the hell are we supposed to catch him?" barks Kitson.

At this, Janet sighs and visibly slumps on her stool. "I don't know. He's so unpredictable there's not an awful lot you can do. You just have to hope he slips up, makes a mistake. You try and find out who he is. Maybe someone will see something." She shrugs.

Kitson sighs wearily, running a hand over his unshaven chin. "All right. Janet, will you come back to the station with me? Give my guys a rundown of what you just said, so they know what they're looking for."

"You mean 'who'," Harry interrupts. "_Who_ they're looking for."

A grimace spreads across Kitson's face. "No. I meant what."

He stands up and waits as Janet tidies some documents back into her briefcase. But before the detective can even reach the doorway, his mobile phone breaks the uneasy silence. Just a second later, so does Harry's. They glance at each other, then Harry mutters, "I'm on call," and puts the phone to his ear. Kitson does the same, turning his back to the room.

Nikki watches as a deep dread seems to settle on Harry's face, and everyone in the room instantly knows what he's being told on the other end of the phone. She passes him a pen as his eyes search for one and he jots down something on the corner of a piece of paper.

He and Kitson finish the calls almost simultaneously, sending each other another worried look.

"There's been another one," Leo says. It isn't a question.

* * *

Harry offers Kitson a lift with him to the crime scene, seeing as all his equipment is already loaded in his boot and they'd undoubtedly be returning to the Lyell Centre together afterwards. He regrets this almost immediately. It's not like he'd pegged the detective as a great talker, but they spend nearly the entirety of the journey in total silence. Harry feels slightly uncomfortable, but he has a suspicion that Kitson doesn't even notice. Indeed, when he opens his mouth a minute later, Kitson jumps as if surprised that he's there.

"Maybe he isn't sticking to a definitive time pattern, but he's killing pretty bloody quickly. Are we going to be getting a phone call like this every day?"

The detective shrugs. "What difference does it make if it's once a day or once a week? He's still destroying the lives of these poor women, and their families."

"How are we supposed to keep up?" Harry asks, indicating left and heading down an unlit narrow gravel track towards the river.

"It's not about keeping up," Kitson replies grimly. "It's about getting ahead."

They arrive at the crime scene, or as near to it as they can get by car. Parking beside one of the many police vehicles in what looks like a disused car park, Harry kills the engine. Kitson is out of the car and barking orders at a nearby police officer before Harry can so much as unbuckle his seatbelt. Reluctantly, he steps outside the vehicle himself, grateful that this morning's rain appears to be awarding him a brief respite. The wind has picked up, though, and the skies are already a deep navy, clouds smothering any light the moon and stars may have offered.

* * *

It's only when Harry and Neil have left, and Nikki announces that fresh coffee is needed, that Janet realises that somehow she has ended up in a room alone with Leo. He seems to figure this out at the same time, and there's an almost comical desperation in his eyes as he looks around for someone else to talk to.

A tiny bitter part of her feels a great satisfaction in his discomfort. _Good_, she thinks, _serves him right_. She rifles through some paper on the table, just for something to do.

Leo, however, appears to decide that perhaps talking to her isn't the worst thing in the world.

"How have you, er – how have you been?" he says.

She blinks at him, amazed at his tactlessness. "Oh, just _great_," she retorts, her voice heavy with sarcasm.

"Janet," he mutters, looking apologetic. "I'm sorry-"

"Save it, Leo," she snaps. "Just save it. I'm so beyond caring."

But, she realises as she sweeps from the room to go and help Nikki, that couldn't really be further from the truth.

* * *

At the crime scene, SOCOs have set up a line of dull lamps, supposedly illuminating a path down to the bank of the river. Harry suits up, grabs his case, and follows it precariously. The wind is causing the lamps to sway ominously, and the wooden walkway feels worryingly unstable underfoot. It's a relief when his shoes (thankfully encased in plastic covers) find the slushy, silty sand. Squinting through the darkness, Harry heads towards the glowing white tent twenty or so metres in front of him. To his left, the Thames laps loudly against the shore. Because of the wind direction, he can just about make out the metallic clangs emanating from the Docklands somewhere on the other side of the river to the East. A flock of squawking seagulls circle overhead.

A shiver creeps up his spine. It's so secluded here; it's no wonder the killer chose this spot. Harry doubts that there'd be anyone in a five mile radius to hear the screams.

Kitson is standing outside the tent waiting for him, a harsh expression on his face and a small evidence bag in his fingers. "Responding officer found this in her hand," he says, holding up the bag. Inside is another 'with sympathy' card, this time with the letters 'BS' scrawled on it in thick black pen. "Dunno what it stands for yet."

"I could think of something," Harry quips dryly, and for the first time since he met him over twenty-four hours previously, Harry could swear that a genuine smile briefly graces Kitson's lips. It disappears as quickly as it arrives, however, as he glances at the tent behind him.

"It's not pretty in there," he mutters, but Harry had assumed as much.

He ducks under the flap to be greeted by half a dozen SOCOs, taking photographs and jotting down notes and measurements.

"We've got under an hour before the tide takes our crime scene," Kitson says to everyone in the vicinity, following Harry into the tent. "So let's make this snappy."

Harry nods, and as a SOCO moves aside he finally lays eyes on the body.

He estimates her to be in her mid-twenties. She's wearing navy tracksuit bottoms and a grey t-shirt, both of which are twisted, crumpled and grubby. She's slightly on her side, her legs at odd angles, one arm bent over her head with her palm facing upwards, the other draped across her stomach. But there's something about her wide, staring brown eyes, slight frame and light blonde hair that causes his hands to shake violently as he bends down to get a closer look.

His balls them into fists involuntarily, screwing his eyes up tightly before releasing a breath and extracting a thermometer from his kit, which he jabs through the victim's stomach and into her liver. While he waits for a reading, Harry carefully brushes some hair away from her neck and inspects it carefully.

"She's been strangled. There are petechial haemorrhages clearly visible in the whites of the eyes. Ligature mark around the neck suggests a thin cord of some kind..." His eyes travel over her body, coming to rest on her trainers, only one of which is laced. "A shoelace, perhaps."

"Some tramp found her," Kitson supplies, carefully walking around to the other side of the body. "Reckons he comes here to kip every night and there she was. Wasn't here when he left to scrounge some lunch about twelve, apparently, but definitely was when he stumbled back here about an hour ago. Well, he says it was six o'clock, but he's as drunk as a skunk so take it with a pinch of salt."

"No, that sounds about right," Harry nods, inspecting the gage on the thermometer. "Liver temperature is still quite warm, she hasn't been here long. Rigor hasn't set in yet. I'd estimate time of death to be between ... four-thirty and five-thirty this afternoon."

"So the homeless guy probably just missed him," Kitson exclaims. "He said he never passed anyone, so I'm assuming our killer got here the same way we did: by car."

"Do we know who she is?" Harry asks, taking swabs now.

"Nope. Had nothing on her but this," he replies, holding up another evidence bag, this time containing a bright green iPod with headphones. "Looks to me like she was out running. But it's got a serial number, we'll see if we can trace it."

"Have you noticed her clothes?" Harry says thoughtfully. "I don't mean what she's wearing, I mean the state they're in. Her bottoms are on back to front."

"You're thinking sexual assault, aren't you?" growls Kitson.

"I won't know until I get her back to the lab, but I think it's a good possibility, yes."

Due to the unwanted pressure of the oncoming tide, Harry wraps up quicker than he normally would have done, leaving the SOCOs to bring the body back to lab and record the rest of the crime scene. He travels back the Lyell with Kitson, this time welcoming the silence, and walks straight past everyone in the office until he hits the locker room, where he stops and leans back against his locker.

He needs sleep. That's what this is. That's why he felt weird back at the crime scene. He's not slept in nearly forty-eight hours, he'll be fine once he goes home tonight and wakes up tomorrow morning, bright and refreshed.

Except ... his mind keeps wandering back to that blonde hair, those brown eyes...

There's a knock from somewhere near the doorway, and an amused voice says, "Are you decent?" with that trademark giggle.

* * *

When he doesn't reply, Nikki assumes it's safe to go in. It's not like she hasn't seen him getting changed before, anyway. Besides, she wouldn't even need to be here if he hadn't charged through the office like that when he'd returned and had actually stopped to talk to her.

She knows something is up as soon as she spots him, leaning there like that against his locker, his eyes shut, looking more exhausted than she's seen him in months.

"Hey," she smiles gently as she approaches him.

He opens his eyes and blinks at her, remaining silent. She doesn't push him. She knows if he wants to tell her what's wrong, then he will. Not that she expects him to be okay after where he just was.

After a solid minute of simply looking at her, Harry finally pushes away from the locker and steps closer. So close, in fact, that she can feel his breath tickling her cheek.

"She looked like you," he whispers.

She sighs sadly and doesn't resist as he pulls her into a hug, wrapping his arms around her so tightly and gripping her top in his fists for such a long time, it's as if he's scared to let her go.

* * *

**Told you another chapter was on the way. And it's a nice long one, to compensate for the inexcusable delay. I also couldn't resist putting a bit of Harry/Nikki in at the end there. See how restrained I've been, so far? It will only make the inevitable fluff all the more glorious later on. **

**Thank you all so much for the reviews, they do keep me motivated to keep writing. Hopefully real-life won't get in the way this time!**

**xo**


	5. Five

**_Five_**

"We'll leave the PM until morning," Leo declares, once Harry and Nikki rejoin Kitson, Janet and himself in the office. "I know that you want to get back to the station, detective, and I don't think any of us are awake enough to be at the top of our game. It will be better tomorrow, once we've all had a decent night's sleep."

There's a general consensus of agreement in the room and Leo smiles. He bids farewell to Kitson, who takes Janet with him, and then turns to face his two colleagues. He doesn't miss the fact that their fingers seem to be brushing against each other's.

"Go home," he tells them. "Get some sleep."

"What about you?" Nikki asks, as Harry walks over to his desk to pick up his coat.

"I'm going to go home and get some sleep, too," he says, hoping he sounds convincing but fearing that he doesn't after catching Nikki's disbelieving frown.

As soon as the pair of them has left the office, Leo sinks down into the chair behind his desk and sighs laboriously. A solitary finger tugs open the bottom drawer beside him and he extracts a bottle of whiskey, as his other hand picks up a glass. He pours himself a double, downs it in one, then refills his glass. He takes a moment, trying and failing to rid Janet's face from his mind, before getting to work.

* * *

"How are things between you and Helen, Neil?" Janet asks, as they walk across the dark car park of the police station.

He briefly debates whether or not to tell her the truth. On one hand, saying it aloud makes it all painfully real. On the other, she'll be able to see right through him if he lies. God dammit.

He thinks for a moment before replying. "She threatened to leave me if I didn't quit my job a few weeks ago. It takes a lot to scare me, but that was the most terrifying conversation I've ever had with her."

"What did you do?"

Neil barks out a humourless laugh as they walk up the steps and into the warmth. "Stormed out. Came here. Worked all weekend and didn't go home for twenty-four solid hours."

"Neil!" she tuts reproachfully.

"What? I went home eventually," he mumbles defensively as they get into the empty lift and he jabs at the number three button. "We talked things through. And that's when she told me."

Janet stares after him expectantly as he steps out into the deserted bullpen, heading straight for his office. "Told you what?"

He stops, turning to face her and glancing around unnecessarily. "Helen's pregnant."

If her eyebrows could go any higher, they'd disappear into her hair. "But ... that's brilliant news! Isn't it?"

For the first time in days a real, genuine, massive grin creeps onto Neil's face. "Yeah. Yeah, it is."

Janet smiles back at him. "Then what's wrong? Because something is."

He sighs, leading the way into his office and gesturing for her to take a seat at the small round table occupying one end.

"I am trying," he says. "I mean, I can cut down my hours. I can actually take my holiday leave and refuse to work at Christmas. But this will always be my job. And Helen _hates_ my job. It was all right when we married, when I was just a PC out on the beat. But now ... I mean, look at us. It's nearly ten and I'm sitting here with you when I should be at home with my pregnant wife. No offence."

She smiles again. "None taken. Look, if Helen wanted to leave you then she'd be gone by now. The important thing is that you _are_ making an effort. You're not oblivious to her worries, but instead you're doing something to fix them. The old Neil wouldn't have even noticed that she was upset. Now go home, for god's sake. Go and be with your pregnant wife."

"Are you sure? What are you going to do?"

"Go home, too!" she tells him. "I only came back here with you because I sensed that you needed a chat. Well, I say chat. You are a man of remarkably few words."

He looks at her for a moment. "You know why I like you, when I tend to hate about ninety-nine percent of people I meet?"

Her brows knit questioningly.

"You're a good man in a storm. Or, woman. A good woman in a storm."

She laughs, although he senses that she understands what he means. "Thanks. Now, are you going to escort this 'good woman' to her car or not?"

Getting to his feet, he proffers his arm. "Yes, milady."

* * *

"I don't understand how they're friends," Nikki murmurs to Harry as they leave the Lyell Centre, spotting Janet and Kitson's backs in the distance as they head for their cars and then, presumably, the police station.

"Who?" he replies distractedly, causing her to tut loudly, her breath rising as fog in front of her face.

"Janet and Kitson, of course! Who else would I be talking about? I mean, he's an insufferable bas-"

Harry grins, cutting across her. "You really don't like him, do you?"

"Are you telling me you do?" she rebukes, eyebrows raised.

He shrugs half-heartedly. "He's all right. I've worked with worse." They reach their own cars and Nikki leans against Harry's bonnet for a moment.

"Are you okay now?" she asks him, not missing the slight flush in his cheeks, even through the darkness.

He nods. "I'm fine. It's just been a long couple of days. I can't help it if I see a tarty blonde and automatically think of you."

Repressing a smile, she tries to scowl at him. "That was insensitive, even for you."

"Sorry," he grins. They look at each other for a moment, then he pushes away from the car and says, "Come on, I'll drive you home."

"But my car is here. How will I get back in the morning?" she asks, as if this isn't something that they do far too frequently.

"I'll pick you up before breakfast. Now will you get in the car, woman? It's bloody freezing out here."

* * *

Leo falls asleep at his desk, eventually. He wakes with a start a little after five, as abruptly and suddenly as if someone had shouted in his ear. His sudden movements cause the motion-sensor lights to flicker back to life, leaving him blinking and wincing in the brightness. Rubbing his stiff neck with the palm of his hand, he glances around the office. It's deathly quiet, the only sound being the low hum of sleeping technology.

Until he hears a bang somewhere below him.

It takes his sleep-addled brain a few minutes to realise that things don't just bang in the morgue of their own accord, especially not at this hour. Pushing his chair backwards, he gets to his feet and stretches before walking quietly out of his office and down towards the cutting room.

There's another noise as he approaches, like a door being shut somewhere in the distance. Frowning, Leo calls, "Harry? Nikki? Is that you?" though he knows that it won't be. None of the lights have been switched on and he can't hear their usual bantering.

Swallowing hard, he approaches the frosted glass doors leading into the cutting room and stops, listening hard. But there's just an eerie silence and he can't see any sign of movement. So he pushes open the door and flicks on the lights.

For a moment he thinks that some idiot lab tech has left Jane Doe's body out on the slab all night. But then he distinctly remembers standing beside Harry as he put her in the fridge the previous evening. And besides, the Jane Doe is blonde. The woman lying on the slab now, furthest away from where Leo is standing, is a vivid red head. And she certainly wasn't there last night.

* * *

Neil groans when the tinny ring of his mobile phone pierces the darkness. Beside him, Helen rolls onto her front, burying her head in her pillow. His fingers scrabble blindly at his bedside table until he finds his phone, silencing it and pressing it to his ear.

"Kitson."

"Detective, it's Leo Dalton at the Lyell. Sorry to rouse you so early, but I think you need to get down here."

Neil glances at the clock incredulously. "Look, I know you said the PM of the Jane Doe would be done this morning, but five-thirty am is a little extreme-"

"It's not that," Leo interrupts, and Neil can immediately hear from the strain in his voice that something is wrong.

"What's happened?" he asks urgently.

"Our killer thought he would save us the trouble of attending another crime scene by delivering his next victim directly into my mortuary."

Neil shoots upright in bed. "He's done _what_? Okay, I'll be right there."

He places the phone back down and turns to face his now wide-awake wife. "I'm sorry," he says, rather fruitlessly. "To say there's been a development in the case would be an understatement, believe me."

She smiles sleepily. "It's fine, honey. Go and do your job."

"Thank you." He gets out of bed, hurriedly pulling on his boxers and trousers. As he buttons up his shirt, Helen mutters, "Don't forget we have that ultrasound appointment today at three."

He had forgotten, but he does his best to pretend like he hadn't. "Yeah, I know."

"You're not going to be there again, are you?" she asks him, a hint of sad resignation in her voice that causes a lump to rise in his throat.

"Hey," he whispers, coming round to her side of the bed and crouching down so that he's level with her. "Of course I'm going to be there. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Do you promise?" she asks, clutching his hand.

He smiles. "Promise." Straightening up again, he bends over to briefly press a kiss to her forehead. "I've got to go. Meet you at the hospital at three?"

She nods, releasing his hand so that he can pick up his shoes and leave the bedroom. As he reaches the doorway he recalls his conversation with Janet the night before. Turning around, he whispers, "Love you," into the darkness.

He thinks Helen has gone back to sleep, but a moment later a small voice says, "Love you, too."

With a smile (and it's not often his days start with a smile) Neil leaves the bedroom. As soon as he exits the house and sits down in his car, however, he reverts back into detective mode. He slips his hands-free into his ear and speed-dials the station as he drives.

"Yeah, it's DI Kitson here. I'm gonna need a SOCO unit and some uniformed officers at The Thomas Lyell Centre, pronto."

* * *

"I think we're destined never to have a proper night's sleep again," Nikki grumbles as she collapses into Harry's car, the welcoming warmth a harsh juxtaposition from the bitterly cold early morning.

"I know," he nods, pulling away from the kerb as she buckles her seatbelt. "When I said I'd pick you up before breakfast, I was thinking along the lines of eight o'clock, not five-thirty."

"Why are we going so early, anyway?" she asks, stifling a yawn before adding, "What did Leo tell you?"

Harry's shoulders shrug. "He didn't, really. Just said that something had happened, Kitson was on his way, and that I should let you know as well."

She sighs, leaning back against the headrest and letting her eyes close. "Ugh, why must these things always happen at such a ridiculous hour?"

He grimaces. "I've been asking myself that for years."

They remain in a comfortable silence for a couple of minutes, while she debates whether or not to say what's on her mind. Really, she has no reason _not_ to say anything. And he'd only end up finding out anyway.

As they grind to a halt at a traffic light, she takes a deep breath and says, "I hope today isn't as long as yesterday. I'd quite like to get home by six tonight. I have a date."

Harry's eyes briefly dart in her direction. "With whom?" he asks, his voice rather tight.

"His name is Spencer. A mutual friend set us up, so at least I know he's not a creep this time," she smiles.

"First date?"

"Yes."

"Nervous?"

"Excited."

They meet each other's gaze and there's a small flicker of something shared between them. A slight knowing look, as if they're both realising in that moment why she chose not to tell him sooner. But it's broken when the lights turn green and Harry returns his attention to the road.

"What kind of a name is Spencer, anyway?" he scoffs.

"An educated one," she huffs and can't help but add, "He read Law at Oxford."

"I went to Cambridge," he retorts, sounding like a petulant child.

"I'm aware of that. It's not a competition, Harry," she reminds him, although she wonders if it is indeed exactly that.

* * *

Harry can't help but grimace as he and the others stare down at the body in front of them. She's wearing a pair of plain flannel pyjamas, her red hair splayed across the harsh steel slab. There isn't a trace of make up on what was clearly a delicately beautiful face. But the bright purple bruises around her neck, the scarlet finger indents on her wrists and the petechial haemorrhages in her eyes have led them to the same conclusion – she has been killed in exactly the same way as their Jane Doe the previous day.

"Why is repeating himself?" Nikki mumbles, her eyes trained on the body.

Kitson shrugs, while Leo says, "I don't know."

"She looks like she's been plucked straight out of her bed," the detective says gruffly. "How does he do it?"

No one answers him.

"Have you found the notecard yet?" Nikki asks, looking at Leo, who shakes his head.

"I haven't looked."

Harry steps forward, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. "I'll do it."

Gently, he prises open the victim's mouth. Inside is the all-too-familiar 'with sympathy' card. Using a pair of tweezers, he carefully extracts it and places it down on the slab by her feet. The others move down to look more closely.

"_'B.S.'_," Harry says, in shock. "Again. Exactly the same as yesterday."

Nikki's eyebrows contract. "Wait. There's something written on the back."

Flipping the card over, he spots what she was talking about. Written in what appears to be a blue ball-point pen in an untidy scrawl are the words, '_Take two. Because you never got it yesterday'_.

"Oh my god," Nikki breathes.

"I hate this son of a bitch," Kitson exclaims angrily. "He's playing game after game, getting more and more bloody cocky, and where are we? Still at square one. Only now with _two_ Jane Does and no more evidence. I mean, how the hell did he manage to get in here and do this, anyway?"

Harry looks between the three of them in disbelief. How are they missing it? How are they not realising what those eight tiny little words mean?

"We don't need to worry about how he got in here," he interrupts, causing them all to look at him in bewilderment. "That's not important at all. '_Because you never got it yesterday'_. Don't you realise what he's trying to tell us? What he's saying?" No one speaks, so Harry continues. "The real question we should be asking is ... how did he _know_ that we didn't get it yesterday?"

* * *

**I realise this story is moving a little slowly, but I do plan on getting chapters up quicker in future and moving the plot along a bit. I've been crazy busy the last couple of weeks, but that seems to have died down now. Next chapter soon, I swear. **

**Thank you so much for all the incredible reviews! They make my day, they really do. It's so good to know that none of you have given up with it! :)**


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